Blackfeather Woods we would say anything just to hear what we want, right or wrong

His return to the Woods had been unceremonious, a hasty bundling of haggard flesh and beaten limbs past the borders into safety. He barely remembers any of it. Infection has settled over him like a heavy wool blanket, as it tends to do. He's used to the itchy fiery feeling now, the tenderness of inflamed wounds, the fog clouding his mind with a deeper intensity every day. It doesn't matter. He patrols sometimes, hunts less often — and he doesn't let anyone touch him, nor does he allow herbs anywhere near his wounds. He simply rots on his feet, dying in slow motion. Today it's all a little too much to bear, though. Mid-morning; the wraith is lounging, half wrapped in a haze he can't seem to find his way out of, willing himself to move his limbs for another ineffective patrol. Maybe one day he'll finally learn this lesson, but not today.